“The first time I read Richard Brautigan, I couldn’t believe that maudlin, romantic poignancy could coexist alongside smarmy, sexually abrasive cynicism. Brautigan inspires me so much because his work encourages the idea that it’s okay to break the rules while emphasizing the importance of using your own voice.”



Flash the reel
And I’ll keep my eyes opened
Wider than Buster
To let film strips slash my eyes
Like straight edge razors
From the mind of Dali
Glossy like steel,
Shadows of Metropolis
Would mediate minds
Between the heart
Throbbing under Anna Karina’s sweater
Kissed by Belmondo’s chapped lips
More than Bogey and his cigars
And the heels of Astaire
While they dipped Ginger
Deep into the ground
Harder than Zampano drove Gelsomina
To love the fool
And “It Happened One Night”
When Gable ate carrots
On a picket fence
And Chaplin kissed flowers
In front of eyes
That for
Melies lassoed the moon

American Summer

City skies are brave enough
To smile with teeth
As sidewalks are bold enough
To grow beards
So I’m working on it
I am dancing through pavement
And laughing at the tickle of sprouts
Rebelling around my ankles
From now on,
I’ll be skipping on beaches
Where I’ve been blistered by warmth
And strangled by seaweed
Remembering of how
Through the California wilderness
I’ve loafed
At the base of redwoods
Smelled sage simmer
On the fourth of July
This summer,
I’m wading in Whitman
While I wait for winter
To frolic in Frost


I wanted to lap up the sidewalk
Gorge myself on the lichened wall stones
Suffocate my lungs with the air of the city
Between Place de la Concorde and Tuileries
I wanted to wring the slender neck
Of the Bastille
Like Jean Gabin
Like Monet gobbled up lilies
And washed his hands in clouds and train smoke
I wanted to swim in brothels
Where Lautrec
inked cardboard with fluids
Dripping from his brush
Stole those women,
With slumping bellies and stripped legs
Tore against their scarred backs and sagging cheeks
Behind boulangeries
When the iced lightning of cobblestones
Ripped through the flesh of my feet
In Paris,
I didn’t know where those streets
Infused with jump cuts
And flashes of architecture
Engraved in metro line maps
I didn’t find
Michel Poiccard
In a pool of blood
Or catch Francoise Hardy tickling a guitar
“Le vieux monde”
Was behind me
La Cinematheque Francaise was a museum
The Louvre, a shopping mall
Yet, my veins are still infested
With the muck of the Seine
My nose numb from the cold
Beneath gargoyles
My eyes remember
The poetry of a vast pallet of bindings
In the second corner
To the left
In Shakespeare
And my heels still gasp
At each step I’ve made
Against those streets

A New Meaning for Nesting

Birds make nests
we tangle our limbs
The difference is that
you are faster
I don’t need the eggs

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